


Bene la vita in Italia

by ShadeDuelist



Category: Contagion (Video Game), Doctor Who, Left 4 Dead 2, Supernatural, Team Fortress 2, Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, Garda Lake, M/M, Multi, Summer Vacation, summer vacation AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 04:51:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2054325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadeDuelist/pseuds/ShadeDuelist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...This is basically just a gift to everyone that missed me during my ten-day vacation at Lake Garda in Italy this summer.</p><p>Plotless but no less fun AU where all of my favourite characters are vacationing (or otherwise present) at a luxury hotel at the shores of Lake Garda, enjoying the sun and the sense of freedom.  Some more than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bene la vita in Italia

“Ciao, bello ragazzo, voglio bene una sveltina?”  The lewd grin that accompanied those words was far less impressive than the sight of the man that spoke them: over six feet tall, messy blonde hair, burn scars all over his lower arms and a bandage tightly wound around his left upper arm.  “Aww, che cosa?  Non pensa che sto attrativo?”

“Gabriel, please stop embarrassing the Italians.”, came the offhand remark – the man spun around and instantly his cheeks coloured red so intensely it could be mistaken for a bad sunburn.  Then again, anyone that was close enough to see his reaction could clearly see that the reason was not the sun but the bikini-clad woman in front of him.

“Sammy, you ain't walkin' around on this fuckin' beach dressed in reject scraps of cloth, j'te jure, personne a le droit de te voir comme ça-”

“A part de toi, non?”, she replied, switching to French easily before going over to Italian, grinning broadly as she repeated the sentence he'd spoken before: “Ciao, bello ragazzo, voglio bene una sveltina?”

“S-si?”

“You wanna ditch the beach and go to your room – the room you and Billy are sharing – for a quickie with me, huh?”, Sam said, taking a step closer to him, causing Gabriel to hastily sit down on their beach towel.  The gravel underneath hurt as he sat down, which had been the reason why he hadn't been sitting down before, but at least it distracted him from the way Sam's body looked covered in nothing but tiny pieces of cloth held together by ribbons and sheer tenacity on the fabric's end – and sweat, sweat that made her skin shine and _look like it'd taste like caramel_ -

“Mère de Dieu, Sam, j'te jure...”

“That room where Billy's now taking a nap?  Or my room, where Archie's probably enjoying round three with Arsène?”, Sam said lightly, now standing over him, and he tried to ignore the fact that he couldn't look at her face anymore without just _staring_ at her bosom-

“Je t'en prie, mon ange, t'me faites si-”

“You know, you're going to have to think of something really good to dislodge Arch and Arsène from the bed-”, Sam said, sitting down next to him – and he couldn't breathe anymore, making his reply sound like he had to struggle to even voice it properly.

“ _J'te jure, Sam, ils peuvent faire part, ils peuvent me baiser toute la nuit si je peux t'avoir toute à moi-même pour faire l'amour avec toi pour seulement une minute-”_

“I sincerely hope you'll last longer than one minute, Gabriel...”, Sam teased, now nearly sitting on his lap – and Gabriel groaned loudly, turning a few heads.  _She felt like an angel wherever their skin touched and he ached, oh he ached..._

“Merde, t'es une vraie diablesse quand tu veux l'être, Sam – we're goin' to my room and we're kicking Billy the hell out and we're _skippin' dinner_ -”  He quickly marched her off back towards the beachside hotel, hastily wrapping his towel around his hips to hide just how heated his thoughts and his body had become from her closeness, vowing to outrun the elevator with her so they could have the time together they both seemed to crave all the sooner.

Nick watched the tall man that'd been relentlessly hitting on him stalk off – or rather, he mused when he heard the woman that followed him giggle softly and somewhat enticingly, run off to more pleasant endeavors – with a lot more satisfaction than it should give him.  It didn't matter where he went, the people always thought he was one of the locals – and here, in Italy, his dark hair and his volatile temperament made sure he blended right on in.  It also didn't help that he hadn't noticed the beach bar waiters' attire before he'd changed, so he now wore the exact same color shirt as they did.  And sure, he could take the drinks orders, he could take the clearly eager stares of the many women that sat on their beach towels – heh, he would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy the attention – but six feet of blonde giant hitting on him in flawless Italian?  That was more than enough to make his day turn sour.  The man hadn't been his type at all, not to mention he'd downed three straight gins, two vanilla gins and one vodka-tonic-limoncello cocktail in the hour he'd been down at the bar, and he still hadn't seemed the least bit drunk.  That, Nick knew, meant he was impervious to alcohol, which could only mean he was _addicted_ to alcohol, and Nick had higher standards than that.

“U-uh, skew-see?”  Someone had walked up to him, once again mistaking him for a waiter: Nick turned around, the thick accent the other person had spoken in telling him it'd be another American redneck tourist that had probably spent his life savings and then some for just one vacation in this gorgeous Italian paradise.  However, all the venom he'd conjured up in a split second fled him when he saw the man that'd addressed him.  Whereas the man from before had most definitely not been his type, this man _was,_ from his loose swimtrunks to his messy light brown curls and easy-going smile.  “...U-unah, uh... un-ow...  aw shit – ah mean, s-skew-see, pa-parla in-glay-see?”  The more the man spoke, the more he tensed and the more he frowned – Nick guessed his previous smile was out of pride that he'd managed to attract attention when he'd wanted to.  In order to stop the man from having a breakdown in the middle of the beach, he spoke up quickly and soothingly.

“Okay, uh, relax, I'm not Italian, I'm American just like you, sport...”

“Y'are?  Awh, thank the Lord, ah can't speak Italian fer the life'a me... uh, yew... are a waiter, though, ain't yew?”, he asked tentatively, and Nick shook his head.

“Afraid not, sport – but hey, I don't blame ya for the misunderstanding.  It's the damn shirt.”

“Bet that's gon' be the las' time yew brought a blue shirt with'chew, huh?  ...Well, if'n y'ain't no waiter, guess ah'm stuck goin' tuh the bar an' tryin' mah crappy Italian there...”  The prospect seemed so daunting for the man that Nick instantly took pity on him – probably, he mused, because the tourist was handsome and looked so helpless that Nick felt it'd be his duty to save him.  Maybe if he could get the man's adoration, he could get something else in the process.

“Well, no need to strain yourself – I can go get you a drink, I was gettin' thirsty myself anyway.  So, uh...”

“Ellis, mah name's Ellis.”, the southerner readily offered, and Nick smiled back at him.

“Nick.  So, Ellis, what do you want?”

“Uh, a beer oughta be a nice start, don't yew agree?”  Nick nodded in agreement, not needing to beckon the other man to follow him to the bar where he ordered said beer and a spritz cocktail for himself in flawless Italian – another reason why he blended in so nicely with the locals, he spoke the language -  which earned him a soft, appreciative whistle from his possible new conquest.

“Wow, yer Italian's damn near flawless, Nick!  Think y'can manage tuh make mine sound less, uh...”

“Horrible?”, Nick offered, and Ellis laughed softly and heartily, to Nick's utter satisfaction; that satisfaction turned to pleasant surprise when Ellis placed a hand on his.

“Ah were gon' say 'rough 'round the edges' but yeh're right, mah Italian's horrible.  So, think yeh kin teach me?”

“Heh, sure I can.”, Nick said, feeling on top of the world.  He couldn't believe his luck, couldn't believe that he'd found a perfectly attractive man that was not only amiable but also interested.  “So, where to start?”

“Well, like ah said, a beer oughta be a nice start fer now.”, the man admitted just as their drinks arrived – Nick meant to pay for them but Ellis swatted his hand away from the bill, taking out the right amount and grinning at the waitress that had brought the beverages over.  “Grazie, tenga puro il resto, per favore.”  Now Nick found himself staring at the other man in clear shock.

“H-how... I mean, you...”

“Well, lookit tha', ah'm more quick on th'uptake than ah figured!  ...Well, since ah won't be needin' no Italian lessons anyway, how 'bout we use the time tha' just freed up in our schedules tuh get t'know each other better, huh?”, Ellis answered with a wink – and Nick, so utterly dumbfounded by the fact that he, the man that usually only needed to _think_ a pick-up line to lure men and women alike to his side, had been blindsided by this tourist, nodded soundlessly.  “Good, 'cause man, ah sure thought yeh weren't goin' t'be interested...”

“Oh, I'm interested, I just... thought...”, Nick stammered, slowly getting his mental faculties to fully cooperate again – his new conquest merely grinned and winked at him again.

“Well, 's it matter who picked up who?”  Nick had to admit, as he sipped his cocktail hastily, that that sentiment made nothing but sense.  Did it really matter who was the one that chatted up the other, as long as they had a good time together like they both clearly wanted?

Eugene felt like banging his head against the wall.  He felt like crying, or screaming, or _busting through the door of the room next to his own to tell those two hyped-up, crazed, mindless... teenagers..._

“Ugh, as if my day couldn't become any worse...”, he groaned – and as if to testament the fallacy of his statement, the noise from the room next to his seemed to double, what with the headboard of the bed banging against the wall.  “Oh _lord have mercy_...”, he muttered, taking a book and virtually fleeing from the room just like his wife and daughter had done before.

However, when he arrived down the stairs, he mused that his day had already been tanked long before that, when he'd first suggested taking a hike up the mountainside.  His wife Elizabeth had instantly started to complain – how she didn't have any shoes fit for walking, how they'd already planned a boat trip, how a long walk was not the kind of activity a seven-year-old girl would enjoy, how the mountain looked _bland_ , how there was a cable lift all the way up to the top and it would be much, much nicer for them to use _that_ instead... she'd been going on and on about it all through breakfast, and in the end he'd relented and they'd went to the 'funivia', the name very unfortunately chosen according to Eugene.  There, they'd paid an exorbitant sum to queue up for one hour, and then half an hour more for the second stage of the trip, only to find the summit clouded by fog and much, much colder than the village at the foot of the mountain.  And then, of course, when they wanted to turn around and go away again, they'd had to queue _again_ for an hour until they could even reach the ticket booth... and it would've still been okay, all the queueing for nothing, if Sarah-Lynn hadn't started whining about aching feet and Liz had very firmly blamed _him_ for 'dragging them up there', he'd replied to his wife in very _carefully chosen words_ that he was close to just packing up their stuff and driving back to the airport.  It'd been a vacation of reconciliation between them – or, at least, that was the idea, because the reality of the situation was that _everything_ seemed to try the brittle understanding they built up over dinner and breakfast.

When their neighbours had decided to loudly start their bedroom activities, though, Eugene had to admit that anything and everything else that had befallen them seemed trivial compared to Sarah-Lynn asking her parents what the people next door were doing and whether 'that big strong guy with the funny-looking hands' was 'hurting' 'the nice lady with the orangey hair'.  The situation had devolved to the point where Liz had threatened to take a taxi to the airport together with her daughter – why was Sarah-Lynn always _hers_ when she needed to be protected and _his_ when he didn't live up to his tasks as a dutiful father, he wondered silently – if he didn't go to the front desk and solve the situation.  He'd tried to tell her, of course, that even the hotel staff were powerless to keep people from acting out their needs in the confines of their room, but she'd given him one of her usual haughty, condescending, judging looks and had stalked off to the beach with Sarah-Lynn.  Which had left him in the room that he'd now fled.

He contemplated going to the beach, but that felt like pleading for Elizabeth to give up her grudges with him, and the last thing he wanted was to plead, especially since he'd done nothing wrong.  Instead, he wandered to the front lobby, sitting down in one of the sofas and flipping idly through his book without reading, using the cover to watch people come and go.  There was a couple that looked very much in love – or, at least, the woman did, while the man kept looking around like a cornered animal; then, there was the waiter that was showing an enthusiastic beachgoer up to the hotel elevator – as they walked past, the tourist hastily removed his hand from the waiter's behind, causing Eugene to blink and look again, wondering if he'd really seen what he had seen.  A few minutes passed without anyone passing by, and then a man in pristine white clothes walked past, looking around in confusion before being whistled over to the front desk by one of the hotel staff in the black-and-burgundy uniform of a hotel restaurant waiter – probably the cook, coming in to start up the kitchen for the dinner preparations, Eugene mused; he meant to look and see where the cook headed off to, only to be distracted by the two people passing by, both dressed rather eccentrically, the woman dragging the man along to the front desk to loudly complain about 'the noise on the second floor' and how 'we are the last two to mind people in love, but they might still need to _talk_ in the morning'... and he mused that maybe, just maybe, his day _wasn't_ as bad as he'd thought it'd be, causing him to pack up his book again and move to the beach in search of his wife and daughter to try and mend whatever he could.

“Sweetie, you promised me the beach, remember?  I've put on my bathing suit and everything, and now we're stuck here trying to get hotel staff to talk some sense in our next-door neighbors...”, River said, nudging her head outside as the front desk personnel retreated to the office behind them – it prompted a soft sigh from the man.

“River, darling, I _know_ I promised you the beach, but we got... a little distracted, I dare say.  All this yelling is not good for the circulation, my heart's all out of synch!”

“Which one?”, River asked teasingly as she put her head against her husband's chest, the double pulse she heard strong but, indeed, not as calm as usual.  “Oh, but sweetie, forget about the beach...”, she said, smiling broadly at him, “A nice _hot sauna_ ought to relax you!”

“A sauna?  Well, I suppose...”, he started before catching his wife's all-too-luxuriating grin and doubling back on his thoughts and his previous admission with lightning speed.  “B-but River, you have to promise that you'll do nothing to... well...”  Dropping his voice to a whisper, he continued: “ _you have to promise that you'll behave..._ ”

“Oh, sweetie, when have I ever _not_ behaved?”, she said, still grinning – though her voice sounded just as innocent as she could be, the twinkle in her eyes and the grin on her features betrayed that her thoughts were anything _but_ innocent, and her husband interpreted it as such.

“River!  T-the last thing I want is people coming over here to complain about us behaving indecently-”

“Oh, love, is _that_ what you're worried about?”, she said softly, still looking at her husband like a cat looking at a platter of cold cuts.  It was hardly a surprise that the man didn't relax at all with his wife having the air of wanting to jump him as soon as they were alone.

“ _River, please-_ ”, he pleaded, only for her to place a slender finger over his lips – that halted the flow of words he'd meant to unleash about the situation, and his hearts, and the hot weather, allowing her to continue.

“Sweetie, I _promise_ I won't misbehave with you in public.  What we do in the privacy of our own room, though... I can't make any promises there.”

“Except that our neighbours won't have any need to come complain about us in turn?”

“...Except that.  Though you know, I _can_ be quite the screamer-”  Her husband looked torn between shock and desire for a second before acting on both thoughts, it seemed, pulling her against his slender form and whispering in her ear a little breathlessly but shyly.

“I might let you misbehave with me just a little bit later _if_ you promise you'll be _quiet_.”

“Oh, but sweetie, I can be _so very quiet_ too, even when you're-”

“Signor e signora Smeeth?”  The front desk staff really had chosen an inopportune moment to return, River mused as her husband nearly jumped away from her, straightening his bow tie as he did so.  “We are sorry for the eenconveenience... could we offer you a free one-day use of our-a spa facilities?”

“Well, that seems fair.”, John Smith said with a charming smile – the man behind the front desk seemed overjoyed with the acceptance of their gift of apology, but then again, River mused, when her husband smiled it seemed like the world always smiled back more broadly than he did in return.   “Coming, River, dear?”, he spoke gently – she nodded, smiling, and when they walked to the elevator and his hand passed slowly down her back to her bottom to pinch lightly before innocently drifting up again to her shoulder, that smile turned to a grin.  Maybe she didn't need to use much of her powers of persuasion to get him to 'misbehave' after all.

Dean hated the way the manager had sent him to deal with 'quelle turisti senza vergogne' – as if the fact that he'd been born and raised in the same country made him somehow able to stop two overly enthusiastic people from enjoying each other.  He hated the way the chambermaids avoided him because the manager had it in for him and they were afraid his bad luck would rub off on them.  But above all else, he hated the fact that he'd had to take the job out here, in freakin' _Europe_ in the blazing sun, surrounded by tourists, simply because he couldn't return to his brother.  Sam thought him dead – and for all intents and purposes, he could've been if he hadn't been saved from the brink of the afterlife by the man he'd sworn to kill.  That left him alive, ashamed, indebted to his most bitter enemy...

“Dean, why are you heading _away_ from the kitchen now?”  The gravelly voice that issued from his right caused him to look over to see Castiel again, and he bit back a soft curse, wishing he could do the same to hold back his blush.

“ _Sonuva-_ Cas, what'd I tell you about sneakin' up on me?”

“...Pardon me, Dean, I thought you'd seen me.”, the man said, looking in front of himself again with his usual fixed, almost staring gaze, the blue eyes piercing holes in the wall instead of Dean's brain and heart.  Yet the silence settling around him had a slightly offended air to it, which caused Dean to sigh.  Castiel had been his best friend before the fight that had nearly killed him.  He and Sam and Cas and a lot of others had been fighting on the same side, against the likes of the man that had brought him back on _his_ side, forever a traitor to the cause he believed in and forever an unwilling puppet for the cause he'd been railroaded into supporting.  But when Sam had thought him dead, Castiel had known better – and when Dean had run, he'd followed, never more than a step behind.  That _dick_ Crowley-  “Don't swear so much, Dean.”, Castiel interrupted his thoughts as if he'd read his mind much like an open book, a testament to the depth of their friendship that caused Dean to once again blush and sigh.

“...Sorry.  You know it's second nature now.  I didn't want none of this, Cas, I swear-”

“I believe you, Dean.  I know how that... _devil..._ works.  But I also know that you are a good man, despite what he forces you to do.  Despite the part of you that feels _drawn_ to it.”  Again, he seemed to read Dean's mind like an open book, and this time it gave Dean that slight feeling of discomfort it always gave him.  Knowing that Castiel knew what his new 'tasks' for Crowley were... it was somehow worse than knowing that Sam made no attempt to try and save him, disgusted as his brother was by what he was being forced to do.  His new job description included (but didn't always stop at) aggressive persuasion, extortion, blackmail, and sometimes torture of any kind Crowley put his demonic mind to.  He had no choice but to follow the man's orders, knowing that Crowley could easily leave him for his brother and his former circle of friends to 'deal with'...  Dean shuddered again.

“...Cas, why'd you follow me?  I mean, you had a good life again, finally – you managed to land the son of a bitch that kicked you and your family out of your home in prison, you had the respect of your brothers an' sisters again... hell, you could've been _top dog_ if you wanted.  Why waste it on me?”, he asked – every word felt like acid, burning on his lips until he spoke it, but when they dissipated into the air between them they felt like fragrant perfume, like the scent of fucking roses and lavender, making his head spin – and the man in the pure white outfit looked at him seriously before speaking in his usual grave voice.

“...I told them no.  When I heard you were dead, nothing mattered.  When I heard you were still alive, I just needed to be sure.  And when I found you... I wanted to spend the last few moments of my existence with you, Dean.  My family's been of doubtful allegiance, and the only friend I have, the only person I would sacrifice all for... that's you.  Well, technically, you and your brother, but you have an edge on him.”  Dean had heard it before – Cas had told him he was dying and, when faced with Dean's disbelief, produced the painfully clear medical reports that threw around words like 'terminal', 'end-stage' and 'prognosis negative' like confetti at Mardi Gras.  He'd already cried and cried until the pain he felt at being reminded of his friend's limited time with him only produced a faint stab of guilt and sorrow in his heart and deep in his gut.  But this was the first time _ever_ that Castiel had mentioned that he had an edge over Sam.

“...I don't got nothin' on Sam, Cas-”, he started, and the cook shook his head, looking every bit as serious as when he'd told Dean he was the hotel's new sous-chef just to work with him, and spoke up.

“You do, Dean.  I am very definitely not in love with Sam.”

In a cruel twist of fate, the elevator chose that moment to arrive at the second floor, and Dean got out before he even knew his feet had even moved.  However, he still managed to shake off his stupor at the revelation long enough to look back at Cas and grin happily.

“...Christ, Cas, ya could've told me sooner.”

“So could you.”, the other man said slightly accusing, though his smile nullified that tone of voice, and as the doors slid closed, Dean felt giddy.  Suddenly the asshole manager, the prospect of having to interrupt a couple mid-escapade, even his nighttime job at Crowley's beck and call... all of that seemed _bearable_ simply because the cook had looked at him with eyes that bore love, and affection, and expectations.  All the things he thought he'd never deserve anymore, all the things he sorely needed.  All the things, he concluded as he briskly stepped to the door of the room he'd been sent to, he'd been so, so wrong about.

Carol looked at the door they'd just passed in mild embarrassment, tugging Daryl along as she went.  They'd not taken the elevator so they wouldn't have to sit – or stand – through the judging looks of the other, more 'hip' hotel guests that had come to get noticed at the beach or on the lake, but... well, they certainly hadn't bargained to pass by an argument in the making between a member of hotel staff that looked like he wanted to be anywhere but standing at someone's door and a mostly-naked couple that looked like they'd been hit by a hurricane and that were _both_ starting to become aggravated with the interruption.  All in all, Carol couldn't blame Daryl for bolting for the next staircase, pulling her along as if he'd forgotten she was still holding his hand.  The man was skittish and erratic – he'd been that way ever since she'd met him, what seemed like an eternity ago but was in reality a year and a half ago, when they'd both escaped a bad situation and had ended up living in a closed community for a year until they'd been forced to find their way alone when the community broke up.  She'd come back reasonably well from it, building up a new life with a new job and a new cosy home; Daryl had tagged along for the ride, unable to relinquish his old ways of living like a gypsy but at the same time holding onto her so absolutely that it felt like they were husband and wife at times even when he barely spoke three words to her throughout the day.

Which, again, brought her at the scene she'd just seen.  She hadn't made it a secret to anyone, least of all to Daryl himself, that she was attracted to him and that she wouldn't mind them sharing more than a house and three meals a day – but either the man wasn't interested, or he simply didn't even know that people could have a relationship.

“...Oh come on...”, she muttered to herself, her tone slightly berating, “...it's not like Daryl didn't know exactly what went on-”

“Oh, I _know_ what went on there.”, Daryl reacted, causing Carol to realize that the man had thought she'd been talking to _him_ instead of to herself.  However, rather than correcting her mistake, she smiled and nodded.

“Good, 'cause I almost started worrying you didn't know about the birds and the bees.  If I would've had to enlighten you-”

“Naw, Merle did that when we was both young.  Had no choice, neither, I caught him and Lizzy May from next door with their mouths an' their hands all over each other.”, the man admitted with a lopsided grin, which got Carol to roll her eyes.  Of course, like everything Daryl's brother Merle had done – teach him how to hunt, teach him that the only one who would ever care for him would be he himself, teach him that women were objects to be used and discarded – it figured that it was because Merle had 'had no choice'.  Normally, she would speak up against Merle's teachings, but that day she resorted, somewhat uncharacteristically, to a quiet snort.

“Pff, yeah, right, like anyone would want Merle like that.”

“Plenty'a women wanted Merle.”, Daryl said, and there was brotherly affection in that voice, a pride of his elder and the way he'd 'paved the way' for Daryl – but there was also shame in his tone, and in the way he looked at his hands as he spoke.  Shame that only became more obvious in his next words: “...I ain't never got no girl, not way Merle had, but I ain't never got the clap neither, so guess it weren't all misery.”

“Good on you, Daryl.”, Carol said softly, squeezing the man's hand – as always when she did that, he helplessly squeezed back, probably because he didn't know why she did that and as a result didn't know how to respond to it – and then turned to the man halfway up the stairs.  “...Look, Daryl, you did _better_ than Merle.  At least you never treated a woman without respect.  At least you didn't repeat his mistakes-”

“Naw, instead I make my own mistakes.”, Daryl admitted – Carol blinked in surprise, looking him over to find him look right back at her, his eyes shy and the light in them carefully adoring.  It was intense without even being _special –_ it was the way he always looked at her, as if those eyes could will her to share some deep, dark secret that he wanted to uncover... “...Truth is, Merle _got laid,_ and hell, I'd like that too.”

“What, you'd like to follow his way of sleeping with a woman you don't know and get an STD in the process?”, Carol asked nonplussed – Daryl's answer was spoken softly, almost whispered, really, but she understood the words as clearly as if he'd shouted them.

“Naw, I wanna figure out a way to sleep with ya without bein' like him.  And no STD.  _Definitely_ no clap for me.  Merle told me you can lose your junk from shit like tha'.”

“You... want me?”, Carol asked, disbelieving.  All those times she'd sidled up to him and he'd quickly walked off; all those nights when she'd tried to entice him to stay with her and talk and he'd practically run away; all the times when he'd come out of his room when she walked out of the bathroom and he'd turned around and went back inside with a look like a man struck by lightning... but then, his eagerness to go with her on vacation came back to mind, and the way with which he'd eyed the key to _their_ room, and the way he hadn't once, not once, corrected anyone that called them a 'sweet couple' or that had called her his 'lovely wife', and her disbelief slowly turned to surprise.  “Daryl, is that... is that why you wanted to come with me?  Is that why you kept wanting us to do something together?”

“Y-yeah, well, maybe, yeah.”, the man stammered, looking increasingly more ill-at-ease, especially when laughter issued from a floor below them; but Carol wasn't about to let him flee again, and when he made to briskly walk back up the stairs again, she held on tight and managed to stop him one step below her.

“Daryl, you... I want you, too-”

“Yeah, but you got high standards, and I ain't no good for you, you need to have someone better 'n me, someone that ain't damaged-”  Carol halted the flow of his words with a kiss that she somehow managed to keep light despite the way that her heart started to race and her palms started to itch when she finally felt the press of his lips on hers.  When she drew back, Daryl still had his eyes closed and his head followed hers slowly, as if he wanted nothing more than to keep kissing her – her heart jumped up at the thought.

“Daryl, I've been hurt too much to still believe anyone can be perfect.  Nobody's perfect.  You don't want to make your brother's mistakes, then you won't make them – and if you will, then I'll set you straight.  I won't let you hurt me, and I sure as hell don't want to hurt you, so... why are we turning in circles?”  She meant to suggest that they forget the wellness session they had booked and just head back to their room, but Daryl was, finally, one step ahead of her, and he swept her off her feet in the middle of the stairwell, one arm around her shoulders and one underneath her legs, holding her weight with ease.

“...You clean, though?”

“What kind of question is that?!”, she said as he carried her slowly back up the stairs, past the second floor that had gone quiet again – her laughter echoed in the stairwell that was empty apart from them.  Daryl looked at her in genuine surprise before grinning broadly and speaking up as he pushed open the door to their floor.

“Y'know what?  I'll risk it, damn it.”


End file.
